The Hunt

Never look a hunting dog in the eyes. It is a sign of aggression and can lead to attack. Knowing that, I stare straight ahead while our heads bobbed in the bed of the truck to the bumps in the rainforest road. Tina, a Wolfhound-Pit bull mix, is at eye level, less than a foot away and staring straight into my ear. I could feel the blood matting my arm hair and back and wondered who in their right mind, does this for fun. Then I realized I would never be able to really explain this to anyone.

While Wwoofing, I came across Cavolot, a farm that stands on the outskirts of the World Heritage Rainforest, north of Cape Tribulation in Australia, where the heat here is the type that you can feel your lips cracking like pie crust in the oven. "Today, we go hunting for boar," Cavo tells me and explains what the hunt involves. No guns. Just dogs and knifes. “Stab at the armpit. Don’t lose me or else you’ll be lost.”

The barking, yelps and squeals vibrate off of the trees. It is a mean looking boar, roughly 200lbs that the four dogs cornered. I’m struck with shock for the split second before the boar breaks free and I find myself up a tree as it rushes past. I turn to witness the dogs tackle it from behind as Cavo jumps down, and grabs the boar’s back legs, keeping it down. I jump down but I hesitate. Cavo screams at me to strike. There is no room for inherited ideals and tender self-image when there's danger. I shake off the hesitation and I plunged my knife in. The boar lurches quickly and then lays still. As I take the knife out, the wound lets out a heavy sigh as every one involved seems to be letting out a deep breath.

Back at the farm, Cavo tosses the skull down and Meana, the youngest dog, grabs it and runs off. Tilting slightly from the weight of her new bone, she takes it to her favorite spot and lies there happily gnawing. At that moment, I can almost mistake her for a common domestic dog running away with a T-bone.